People become gamers by accident, usually when they're young. A school-friend's console…
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I live in a tiny apartment and still have a large tower. A PC I built with my bare hands; with love and care and precision. Managing the cables, making sure the thermal paste was applied in the most efficient way. It's a giant, a behemoth, a looming monolith over the rest of my desk. I named it Titan.

A HAF 922. MY HAF 922. With its twin 20cm fans, it drinks in air at a whisper, keeping the vicious quad-core and powerful GPU contained within at perfect temperatures.

It sits on an enormous L-shaped desk. With a 23" monitor, and a racing wheel, and a drawing tablet. A MacBook Pro, too. That has its own drawing tablet.

It is my Battle station. My home. It is where the magical things happen. It's where at Midnight I played my first game of Borderlands 2, laughing as I chatted via Skype to a few friends. Marveling at the gorgeous PhysX particles and cloth and blood and goo that spilled from barrels.

And somewhere, deep in the back of my mind, feeling just a little smug that those people on consoles would never witness this beauty.

I say, Stephen. Come back to us. Yes it is more work, but the work is little, and simple, and the rewards are great. Vast riches of pixels and shader effects await you.
Come home to the grand-daddy of gaming. We are still alive, and we are still the best.